


love was painted gold

by paleolithic_demitasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beaches, Fluff, M/M, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleolithic_demitasse/pseuds/paleolithic_demitasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The beach is empty, save for sparse piles of seashells and the two lone figures who sit together facing the sea. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	love was painted gold

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song '[You Already Know](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OT2M1r-XyM)' by Bombay Bicycle Club, which I listened to non-stop writing this. It's a gorgeous song, and 100% trmojas.

Softly, gently. The waves crash against the sand. Here, the air is noticeably lighter than the city, salty as it is still. London smog – denser than the tourists who find it endearing – soon loses its charm, redeemed only by the incomparable buzz that electrifies every breath the city takes. But this is no metropolis, and sometimes peace is infinitely more energizing that constant motion. The sea breeze exhales gently in agreement.

The beach is empty, save for sparse piles of seashells and the two lone figures who sit together facing the sea. They look out onto the blue horizon; the water doesn’t reach their bare feet. They aren’t talking, but they look comfortable. Happy. Unmoving, but too soft to be statues. Their car is parked out of sight. They’re here as long as they want to be.

The smaller of the two men, a broad-shouldered blond, wears the tensionless expression of someone blissfully relieved to have escaped from whatever reality he must live every day. He looks thoroughly transfixed by the lethargic dance of the tide. Somehow, he has utterly forgotten to be worried about waking up from this rare moment of silence. The other man, taller, is staring with equal reverence at the silhouette of the man on his left. His hair looks like the windswept personification of the sea breeze that quietly blankets the beach, and it moves with all the grace of an anemone as he moves his head to stare at his companion, his partner.

For once, the world is quiet for them.

Slowly, carefully, a long slender arm curls around the shoulders of the shorter man, pulling him closer. He leans his head on the taller shoulder. He extends a hand and places it on the other’s knee. He pulls him closer. Two different people, the same affection washing over them like the waves that seem to climb up the beach and fall back into the sea in time with their breathing. The dark outline of their silhouettes is precise against evening sky, its violent colours providing a dramatic background for their every movement. They move like dancers in their own shadow theatre, every move fuelled by purpose and feeling.

As the sun sets, larger than ever on the horizon, every conceivable shade of orange and red and pink bleeds into the sky and the sea like a painting in watercolour. Paint spilled across the sky, colour mixing with water in an unreplicable way. A sky that belongs either in the furthest reaches of nature where city life can’t lay its hands on it, or in an extravagant frame hung up in a museum. The kind of colours oil on canvas could capture better than a photograph. If life imitates art, then surely it must work the other way around. Blue fades into yellow fades into the sun fading into the horizon, its shimmering reflections sending tendrils of electric orange in every which direction across the surface of the ocean. There’s nothing to see for miles except what had earlier been blue sea, its colour now fading to black. The sun takes a final scarlet bow and recedes beneath the horizon, swallowed by the sea.

The two figures watch the sun set, their silhouettes slowly merging with the approaching night. Light dissipates, but the incoming darkness forgets to be ominous. This is a night for muffled giggles and the sound of the waves and kisses that make you forget your own name.

Day holds open the door for night to pass through as it finally retires. Darkness falls like a blanket, and moonlight shines on the beach. Everything is illuminated is a soft glow: the sand, the water, the figures on the beach.

Star shine above them. The cosmos smiles on them smiling at each other. There is peace, there is quiet. Nothing can reach them here, nothing that they haven’t left behind in the chaos of their lives. It’s not serenity; it’s not the feeling of sitting by yourself and watching the ocean at night. There’s a different energy to the air. It’s the same mesmerising pull of the tide, but it feels… complete. There is no room to wonder what this moment is missing, because the answer is right there. The answer is nothing, because they are enough. They are their own answer.

Under the light of the moon, the figures change. They take each other in their arms, and it’s impossible to tell who is who because it looks the same and it feels the same and suddenly they aren’t just the backs of two figures facing the sea, they are lovers who will not let go of one another. Ever. Each kiss has the force to blow out every star in the sky as though they were lightbulbs. The lovers embrace, softly. The lovers’ embrace, gentle.

They slow dance to the rhythm of the night, guided by the music of the waves behind them.

Eventually, they fall asleep, limbs curled together like the roots of a tree, chests pressed together, rising and falling at the same time. The waves continues to lap at the sandy beach and above them Orion chases the seven sisters through innumerable, unnameable constellations. Starlight rises and falls like the tide, and the night carries on.

The only sounds are the sea and their slow breathing.

The sun rises and the tide comes in. Night ran off to wherever she goes to wait out the day, taking the stars and the moon with her. Water climbs up the beach towards the still, sleeping pile of two; waves begin to lap at their feet. The smaller man feels it first. Unconsciously, his feet twitch every time the tide reaches the tips of his toes. He wakes to the sea – sounds, smells, feel and all. By the time he’s sat up, the waves has reached his ankles. The taller man, whose black coat is laid out beneath the two men as a substitute blanket, sleeps through this.

The water reaches the blond’s thighs. He does nothing, a soft expression on his face as he watches his companion sleep, brown hair shining in the early morning sun. The waves begin to recede. The tall one wakes up with the small one’s lips on his, and they roll out of the imprints they’ve left in the sand to make new ones. Early morning turns to late morning. Seagulls caw in the distance, but they’re still alone together on the beach. The sun has really come out, and the ocean begins to look like a relief. They swim, splashing each other and falling down into the water and kissing until they need to come up for air and then kissing some more.

They head back to the beach and sit back where they began, the same but different.

The coat dries in the midday sun. They lie on their backs gazing upwards at the sky, a blue so nearly indistinguishable from the sea that it’s difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. They hold hands, remembering the stars and wondering how any shade of blue could be so brilliant.

At some point, they sit up. They’ve dried off and they’re happy and a little bit hungry but they’ve got pretzels in the car (or something like that, the smaller one promised). It’s back to business as usual soon, and they want to enjoy this last moment of peace. That would be a daunting prospect if they didn’t both know that they would always have this. They would always have the sand between their toes and on their backs and the stars in the night sky and the splashes of sea water on a hot morning. These are the memories that shape them, softly, gently. They will always have this, and they will always have each other. They sit side by side, facing the ocean, watching the tide.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Hanna, my beautiful beta. I couldn't have done it without you.


End file.
